Murder in the South of France: Book 1 of the Maggie Newberry Mysteries (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series)

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “Did you know that Auckland is the furthest point on the globe from Atlanta?” Gary said. “Except Perth.”

  “And I guess that’s the whole point?” Maggie looked at Gary.

  “I’m sick of being afraid for my family and reading about mass slayings at the McDonald’s restaurants and drug killings in Cabbagetown.”

  “You act like it’s an every day occurrence,” Darla said, slurring her words.

  “So your answer to that is to try your luck in another hemisphere?” Maggie cut her pear into small bite-sized chunks. “I don’t know, Gary, it seems drastic. Don’t you think so, Laurent?”

  “I’m thinking it sounds like a bonne idée,” he said, shrugging.

  “I thought you liked America,” Maggie said.

  “I like wherever you are, chérie.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m thinking it sounds like the end of the world,” Darla said, pushing her plate away. “Literally.”

  Maggie looked at Laurent and he covered her hand on the table with his. She felt the sudden and unmistakable peace of the unspoken truce between them.

  16

  Gary opened his office door and peered down the hallway. Awfully quiet for the afternoon of a great client victory, he thought. On the other hand, did they expect him to bring out the champagne every time they won a significant account? At least Maggie had to take back everything she’d said recently about his mind not being on the clients. Today’s success story certainly threw that theory in the crapper.

  He wandered down to Maggie’s closed door and stood there frowning. Deirdre passed him on the way to the copier machine.

  “What’s the deal with Maggie?” he asked.

  “Private phone call, I guess. Should I buzz her to be at the rubber meeting?”

  “Stop calling it that, would you? It’s a condom client, for God’s sake. You make it sound like we’re practicing safe sex in the conference room. No, don’t bother her. Let’s assume she looks at her day planner.”

  Deirdre walked away but Gary lingered outside Maggie’s door. Ever since that frog came into her life, she’s been acting strange. Even Darla said as much at breakfast today.

  Gary frowned at the closed door. She spent hours in the office ladies room messing with her hair, where she never used to care all that much before. She was never available for lunch any more. He grimaced. Probably because she’s running home for lunch sex or something equally as unbalanced.

  That was it. The whole situation was unbalanced. Out of kilter. Gary was determined that before he left the country he would make sure Maggie wasn’t racing full-tilt down the road to sure destruction and heartbreak, as she currently was.

  Unfortunately, giving her the real story about her hulking Franco boyfriend was the only way to do that. Sure, she’d be mad at first when he told her what he’d seen the night of the dinner party. But eventually she’d realize how foolish she’d been. It might take awhile, but he knew eventually she’d thank him for it.

  He paused for a moment to imagine what she’d say when he told her about the prison tat on Laurent’s left bicep he’d recognized peeking out of Dernier’s shirt.

  “Gary?”

  He turned, embarrassed at what he must have looked like, staring at Maggie’s closed door as if he were going to use mind powers to open it. Patti stood in the hallway, her laptop tucked under one arm.

  “You okay?”

  He blushed. He had successfully avoided seeing her alone for four straight days. He wasn’t proud of it, but there it was.

  “Oh, hey, Patti. I must look like an idiot just standing here in the hallway.”

  “We’ve all been there. Half the time I go into the supply room I have to ask myself, now why did I come in here?”

  “Exactly! Yes. Thank you.”

  “I just wanted to say…”

  No, no, no! Can. Not. Deal. With. This.

  “…that I’m sorry about some stuff I said the other day. I feel like an idiot, and if you can rewind the memory tapes on that afternoon, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Oh, sure, Patti. Hey, good metaphor. Memory tapes. You know, for a media buyer? Anyway, of course. Hey, how about that client win, huh? Pretty exciting.”

  “Really exciting,” she said, smiling.

  Unless he was badly mistaken, Gary could tell Patti was just as relieved as he was to be out from under what had been said that day.

  * * *

  The man glared at Gerard from across the café table. All along the Rue de la Clignancourt, shopkeepers were opening their doors and beginning the morning ritual of hosing down the patch of sidewalk in front of their stores.

  The Sacré-Coeur was just visible in the distance, its bone-white onion dome dotting the horizon like a bright exclamation point. Every time he saw the cathedral, Gerard thought of his grandmother, that ferocious old crow who every Sunday would drag him and his brother—unprotesting but unwilling—up the hundreds of steps to Mass. He could still feel the pinching grip of her withered old hand clamped on his wrist.

  His eyes shifted away from the church and back to his companion. He eyed the filthy bundle of flesh and clothes across from him.

  “As I have said before, Vadim, I have not seen Nadia in more than six months. And even then, we were merely acquaintances.”

  “Of course,” the man said. “That’s understood. You wouldn’t be alive at this moment if it were otherwise.”

  Gerard licked his lips. He had been a fool to think they wouldn’t look for him in Paris.

  “Her father believes you were one of the last people to see her before she disappeared.”

  “Surely disappeared is a bit dramatic? Perhaps she went back to Russia.”

  “Her family there says no.”

  “Then she ran off with a lover.”

  “Did she run off with a lover, Monsieur Dubois?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Why do you assume anything at all happened? Nadia was a free spirit. Unpredictable. Who is to say where she would go?”

  “She left her little dog that she loved so dearly. She left her father and a two million euro pied-a-terre in St-Tropez. Her spirit was not that free.”

  “But, if you haven’t found a body, and I assume there have been no reports of suspicious deaths along the Côte d’Azur, why do you assume the worst?”

  “It is true there have been no reports of unidentified bodies, accidental or otherwise, on the coast. None except for your own poor wife, of course,” the man said, grinning obscenely at Gerard. “But a body is not a difficult thing to make disappear, if one is determined.”

  “Look, like I said, I haven’t seen her in months. I have no idea where she might have gone.”

  “My employers are prepared to be kind, Monsieur Dubois, to have the truth in order to go forward.”

  Gerard hesitated. “I can ask around, Vadim. See if anybody has seen her.” He raked a hand through his thinning, reddish-brown hair.

  “You do that, Monsieur Dubois.” The man’s watery eyes blinked malevolently at Gerard. “You do that as quickly as you can.”

  It’s as if he already knows, Gerard thought as a sudden, terrible coldness began to seep into his bones.

  But how could he?

  17

  The skirt of Maggie’s stiff cotton sundress spread out in a fan against the lawn. She drew her bare legs up under her and sipped from one of the frosty glasses of lemonade Becka had just armed everyone with. Laurent stood a few yards away in khaki trousers and a black polo shirt, holding the reins of Nicole’s pony. Nicole, her jodhpurred legs sticking out awkwardly, sat woodenly atop the Welsh pony. Laurent spoke to her in French and Maggie enjoyed hearing his fluency for a change.

  She hated to admit that Gary might be at least a little right on that score. He had lately done more than hint that the very sexy French accent Maggie was so enthralled with was a pretty big roadblock to basic communication. She wouldn’t go that far, but from time to time she did find herself yearning for a more complicated exchange betw
een them.

  Yesterday, when they were trying to agree on which movie to download for viewing, Maggie had been appalled to see Laurent zero in—not to the foreign films, as she had expected—to the horror/sci-fi section of the online store. They had actually argued about it.

  “I can’t watch this stuff, Laurent.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s garbage.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “I mean, come on, Laurent, blood and guts pouring out of a dead man’s eyeballs? It’s gross and meaningless.”

  In the end, they’d compromised. Maggie promised not to make retching noises during his shows, and Laurent resolved not to sigh too heavily or yawn during the British drawing room mystery that she wanted to see. After all, it could’ve been a lot worse, she mused. It could have been a Jerry Lewis movie.

  As she listened to him now, talking fluently to Nicole, she made a silent vow to take a French class at the local community college. Soon.

  She turned to her mother, who was seated on a white wrought iron bench next to her.

  “Do you think she enjoys that?” Maggie asked.

  Elspeth shaded her eyes against the sun and smiled at Laurent. “Watch her left foot, Laurent. She looks like she’s a little lopsided.”

  Laurent waved a finger in Elspeth’s direction to indicate he had it under control. He trotted up and down the lawn next to the pony. Nicole clung to the saddle like a tenacious but somnolent jellyfish. Her little face appeared to be screwed into a squinting mask of concentration, which was an improvement over her usual blank stare.

  “Why do you need to go to Cannes?” Elspeth spoke to Maggie, but her eyes were on her granddaughter. “Laurent mentioned that you are planning another trip overseas.” Elspeth took a sip of her lemonade and then patted her lips with a lace-trimmed cotton handkerchief.

  “I was going to tell you.”

  “He said you were going because of Elise.”

  Maggie cleared her throat and winced into the sun. “Well, sort of.”

  Elspeth turned and looked at her daughter. She wasn’t smiling. “Maggie.”

  Maggie sighed. “Look, I don’t know how to explain to you why I feel I need to go. I just do, that’s all. Elise was writing a letter before she died and I want to talk to the woman she was writing it to. I know it sounds feeble, but I think it’s worth a trip.”

  Elspeth set her lemonade glass down on the bench and stood up, applauding the approaching twosome.

  “Très bien, Nicole! Our own little National Velvet.” She touched Maggie’s head. “I love you, Maggie. Possibly more than anything on this earth.” She turned on her heel and walked back into the house.

  Astonished by her mother’s words, Maggie stared after Elspeth’s retreating back. Her lemonade glass was dripping blotches of condensation all over her skirt.

  “You are getting wet, Maggie,” Laurent called to her. He picked Nicole up and deposited her on the ground next to her pony and led the beast to where Maggie was sitting. He tucked the reins under the pommel and let the pony graze while he flopped down next to her. Nicole moved to where Laurent was seated and lowered herself to a spot beside him.

  “She seems to like you,” Maggie remarked.

  “Ah, mais oui!” Laurent patted the little girl’s hand. “We are very fond of each other, eh, mon petit chou?”

  “What else did the detective tell you?” Laurent asked, smiling at Nicole. Burton had called Maggie as she and Laurent drove over to her parents’ house that afternoon. Burton had called it a “courtesy call,” but as far as Maggie was concerned it had been pretty devoid of any actual courtesy. Or content for that matter.

  Maggie flicked away the droplets of water that had pooled in fat beads on her dress. “I did more telling than he did. He said this guy they have looks good for it and they’re going for an indictment and then to close the case.”

  Laurent pulled out some grass and sprinkled it on Nicole’s lap. She looked at him somberly. “And so you told the detective everything you know?”

  “Well, you heard what I told him. All about Alfie and how Gerard was at my apartment that day.”

  Laurent nodded without looking at her.

  “And it meant nothing to him! I mean, I practically have a video tape of Gerard killing Elise, and they don’t care.” She looked guiltily at Nicole and then lowered her voice. She shook her skirt free of remnant grass blades. “They got their guy and they’re not interested in any more ‘facts.’”

  “Tant pis, Maggie.” Too bad.

  “Yeah, tant pis, all right.” She stood and gave her dress a shake. “Come on, let’s take Nicole inside. I’m starving and it’s mostly your fault.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Your cooking. It’s stretched my stomach. I used to eat like a bird. Now, if I don’t get multiple course meals on a regular basis, I feel like I’m on a starvation diet. Thanks a heap, Laurent. I hope you like your women hefty.”

  Laurent hopped up easily for someone of his height and bulk. He caught her by the waist and swung her effortlessly into the air and back down again. He kept her pinned in his arms.

  “Not too bad,” he said judiciously.

  She smiled, loving the feeling of his strong arms around her.

  Nicole sat quietly between them, staring at the torn grass bits scattered across the lawn and on her bright blue dress.

  Later that evening, they returned to Maggie’s apartment. The summer was giving way begrudgingly to the first signs of autumn, and the heat of the day had completely dissipated. Maggie was exhausted, which was what she would cite as her defense for what happened.

  She slipped out of her skirt and pulled on cotton shorts and a tee shirt while Laurent prepared a late night repast for them. She was determined not to remind Laurent of her upcoming trip. A part deep in the back of her brain couldn’t come up with a good reason why he was so set against her going. It didn’t feel like worry or even his usual protectiveness that seemed to be the impasse. For the life of her, she couldn’t put her finger on what it was, only that it had become the first and only real problem they were having trouble getting past.

  Now, as she sat curled up on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand and a warm Croque Monsieur in the other, she felt inextricably drawn to this man who had entered her life—and the lives of her family—so effortlessly and left her breathless with longing and desire.

  “Laurent?”

  “Mmmm—mm?” He looked up and smiled. A question mark hovered in his eyes.

  “Do you have any ideas about our future together?” Maggie was surprised as the words came out of her mouth. She had not expected to say them out loud. She wasn’t so unaware, however, as to not suspect they hadn’t been hiding out in her head.

  Laurent finished chewing and removed his napkin from his shirt collar. He placed it down on the coffee table and scanned the remains of their finished supper. It occurred to Maggie that Laurent, who always seemed to know what to say, when to get excited, when to let something pass, was a little uncomfortable.

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll get work over here?”

  “Perhaps I will get a job as the French chef at Burger King.”

  Maggie blinked at him when he said this. Was he being facetious? “I was just wondering about a timeline for us is all. How long were you thinking of staying?”

  “You are wondering how long we will last? Of course. Living with a French lover is one item on your bucket list, non?” He did not soften the words with a smile.

  Vaguely aware that his English seemed to have improved, Maggie was horrified at how quickly the conversation had gone wrong. Even so, she was too angry to do anything but sputter, “What are you talking about? That’s not what this is.”

  Laurent made a grunt of disgust. “This. Always you are misunderstanding me. I am talking about Maggie not making room for me in her life.” He waved away her attempts to speak with an impatient hand. “Do not tell me you emptied a drawer for me,
I am not talking about drawers. I am talking about your life.”

  Maggie wrapped her arms around herself and stared at him. “I see,” she said, stiffly. “I had no idea you felt this way.”

  “Bien sûr!” he exploded. “This is the problem. You want to continue as you are and be the independent single girl. Ach! You are so Américaine...”

  “Well, excuse me for being so Américaine. I’ll try in future to be a little more Libyan, or would my being a tad more French be good?” She began picking up dishes. “That’s what this is really all about, isn’t it? Me being some simple-minded French girl who’ll spend hours plucking her eyebrows and starving herself bony while whipping up heavy creamed sauces for her big Frenchman.”

  “You could not possibly be French,” Laurent said with a shrug.

  “I hate you.”

  “D’accord. As you always say, I can live with that.”

  “Great.” Maggie whirled around and stomped toward the bedroom. “Why don’t you live with cleaning up this mess in the kitchen while you’re at it?”

  “That would be different than usual?” he called after her. The door slammed between them.

  Later that night, as Laurent lay snoring softly against her, Maggie watched the moon through her window as it broke loose from behind a diaphanous shred of cloud. She touched his sleeping face. The fight had been stupid, but it had also felt somehow necessary. It helped to put to bed finally and forever her concern that their language gap was only allowing them a shallow relationship. After the fight, she would never have to worry about that again.

  She looked at his sleeping profile. Even with a scant one hundred words of common vocabulary between them they were still able—as able as any other couple—to have a silly fight about nothing.

  When he had finally tapped on the bedroom door and entered, she could see from the frown on his face that his making the first move was as far as he was going to go with the reconciliation. Relieved to have at least been offered an olive branch—if somewhat hesitant—Maggie had reached out to him.